Archive for the 'Lack of Balls' Category
It was a small New England college - one devoid of the traditional raucous party scene that peppers the imagination when one thinks of college…or Girls Gone Wild. On this dreamy little campus, a wild night out consisted of hanging at the campus coffeehouse to hear the “hot” a capella group of the moment. On this particular evening, however, I was hoping for something more …
I was chilling out with a group of outcasts and miscreants - the typical sort that declares “Theatre Arts” as a major. And yes, I was one of them. We inhaled a little inhalant and imbibed an intoxicant or two to mellow out the mood. Then we settled into the dorm room of the femme fatale in question, which we filled with music both acoustic and deep.
As the conversation flowed, I found myself becoming more intrigued with “Emily” with each passing minute. We were both seated on her bed, but were separated by two others. As the evening wore on, one-by-one the group began to dissipate. Finally, I found myself alone with Emily sitting on her bed, just talking the night away. Despite our proximity, despite our privacy, I was not quite sure if we were just talking as friends, or if she was sending me signals. So we just talked some more. 2am, 3am and on….by 6am we had talked ourselves out, and decided it was time to call it a night….or morning. A quick hug at the door was all that I managed, and I left tired and disappointed. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t picking up any signals from Emily, but determined the next time we were alone, I was definitely going to make a move. Sadly, there was no next time.
Years later, I found out that Emily was perplexed I never made a move on her that night. Clearly, she thought being alone with her in her room on her bed throughout the wee hours of the night and morning was a fairly strong signal. In hindsight, that sounds like a pretty strong signal to me too.
Submitted by Jackson Caribou, Age 29, Boston, MA
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Back near the dawn of time, I spent summer and christmas breaks working alongside a smart, beautiful, smart-ass girl. The banter was legendary. Never had I compatibility with someone that devastatingly intelligent, stunning, and, well, dirty. However, due to a high-school-ish lack of self-confidence and cluelessness, I assumed our linguistic sexual interplay was merely in the land of “let’s just be friends”ishness.
Eventually, our friendship progressed into letter-writing and getting together with groups of friends now and then. I think our flirtiness via snail mail and parties got to the point where I somehow indicated my real feelings, for she responded with a “I’d love to go out with you, but [her best friend] has a crush on you and I wouldn’t want to hurt her.” So after much soap opera garbage and letting down the friend easily, I got that first date. And it was spectacular; the specifics were better than I’d imagined (a story for another website?). This was an open-minded girl! But I stopped short of home plate that evening, I don’t know why: I’d never had sex, lack of self-confidence, first date, stupid, etc. And we went on for a couple of weeks, and here’s where the train falls off the track.
Rather than trying to reignite the passion and fun and fearlessness of that first night, I became a supreme fluffhead schmuck. A far-too-expensive necklace for Christmas. Teddy bears. Little gifts all the time “just because.” Discussions at her house, alone, without progressing to making out. Too much obsessive attention WAY too soon. Trying to show her the relationship wasn’t just about sex.
And then, well, it wasn’t. She let me down easy, but she never really explained why she broke it off, to my lifelong frustration. We wrote letters for a while, even with some of the flirty stuff thrown in, halfheartedly, but that was it.
And in twenty years, I’ve never met another woman with that same combination of smarts, beauty, humor, and pure sexuality. How’s that for schmuck?
Submitted by Snake, Age 35, Boston
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In the summer after college, I joined a band in Chicago, and we were all living together in a rented house in a very wealthy northern suburb. Squalor amidst obscene plenty, was my observation of the mansions on the lake compared to my old sleeping bag on a hardwood floor.
The band was full of preening prima donnas, and I was bunking with one. Me and Rich, one of the singers, both slept on the floor of one of the bedrooms of this ranch. One morning, I awoke to find that Rich had a pretty young thing sharing his sleeping bag. He got up and walked out of the room, presumably to take care of business, or even have breakfast. The touseled-haired thang looked over at me and saw I was awake. She said softly, “C’mere”.
I looked at the door. Was Rich coming back? I could just get up and lock the door. I was frozen. I hadn’t gotten laid all summer. Keyboard players didn’t get laid, only lead singers (and guitarists and bassists and drummers and roadies).
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The good thing about totally giving up on women is that it gives you a lot of freedom. For instance, if you want to go see a movie about “The Band”, you don’t have to worry that your date will find it boring or say “what band?” or something equally disappointing. So when the Band’s “The Last Waltz” was playing at the local cineplex, I jumped at the opportunity. To be safe, I chose a Friday matinee to avoid the embarrassment of going to a movie by myself, surrounded by happy couples.
As I was buying my ticket, a beautiful woman, around my age, walked up to the window next to me and bought a ticket for the same exact show. She, too, was alone.
Now I’m thinking: this is a sign from God. There I was, feeling like a loser for going to this movie by myself on a Friday afternoon, and in walks a woman with the same idea. And she’s gorgeous.
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